I don't carry much most days. Wallets are even too cumbersome for me - I travel light, staying spry. Though, one thing I always try and remember is a notebook and a pen - always a pen, what good is a forest of paper without the tool with which to inscribe? It's like having a naked, riving woman beneath you and no erection.
But just as important is a tablet. I have a long history with pocket sized pads, from the much-touted moleskin of Hemingway to thick, ornately designed paperblanks. I've washed words, lost to a garbled wad of lint; lost them in drunken, hazy evenings, some turn up, some are gone for good. Some sit besides my bed, glimpses of who I was, where my mind swirled.
Reading an entry from this month:
I am not made the same as them
Perhaps I am a metric
Broken into tenths
While they divide into twelfths
A dozen divides separate us
We are not there
Time is not lost
A stand still
Do they know?
They do not.
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